Victoria wasn’t buying that. She’d researched her subject thoroughly. Part of the job but one of the most fascinating things about her work. She loved getting background information on her subjects but this had been an especially interesting one. When Clint’s name had come up in a production meeting, she’d immediately raised her hand to get first dibs on researching him. That, after trying to forget him for over two years.
Rodeo star. Hotshot bull rider, and all-around purebred cowboy who’d been born into the famous Griffin dynasty. Born with a silver brand in his mouth, so to speak. Money wasn’t a problem until recently but that rumor had not been substantiated. Credibility however, had become a big deal. Former rodeo star, since he’d retired three years ago after a broken leg and one too many run-ins with a real bull. Country crooner. Shaky there, even if he could play a guitar with the same flare as James Burton and sing with all the soul of Elvis himself, he only had one or two hit songs to his credit. Rancher. She’d seen the vastness of this place driving in. Longhorns marking the pastures, Thoroughbred horses racing behind a fence right along beside her car, and a whole slew of hired hands taking care of business.
While he lolled around in boots and a bathrobe.
But his résumé did impress.
Endorsement contracts. For everything from tractors to cars to ice cream and the next president. His face shined on several billboards around the Metroplex. Nothing like having one of your favorite fantasies grinning down at you on your morning drive.
Women. Every kind, from cheerleaders to teachers to divorced socialites to...giggly, leggy blondes. He’d tried marriage once and apparently that had not worked.
And again, Victoria wondered why she was here.
“Come in. Sit a spell.” He pointed toward the big, open living room that overlooked the big, open porch and pool. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Would you like something to drink while you wait? Coffee or water?”
“I’m fine,” Victoria replied. “I’ll be right here waiting.”
“Make yourself at home,” he called, his boots hitting the winding wooden stairs. He stopped at the curve and leaned down to wink at her. “I’ll be back soon.”
Victoria wondered about that. He’d probably just gotten out of bed.
* * *
CLINT GOT IN the shower and did a quick wash then hopped out and grabbed a clean T-shirt and fresh jeans. He combed his hair and eyed himself in the mirror while he yanked his boots back on.
“No hangover.” That was good. He at least didn’t look like death warmed over. The tabloids loved to catch him at his worst.
But he’d had a good night’s sleep for once.
The determined blonde named Sasha had obviously given up on him taking things any further than a movie and some stolen kisses in the media room and had fallen asleep sitting straight up.
She’d probably never be back, but she’d be happy to tell everyone she’d been here. Since he’d had the house to himself all weekend, he’d expected her to stay. But...they almost never stayed.
And now another woman at his door—this one all business and different except for the fact that she wanted him for something. They almost always did.
He thought of that Eagles song about having seven women on his mind and wondered what they all expected of him.
What did Victoria Calhoun expect of him?
This was intriguing and since he was bored... The woman waiting downstairs struck him as a no-nonsense, let’s-get-down-to-business type. She didn’t seem all that impressed with the juggernaut that was Clint Griffin, Inc. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t all that impressed with him, either, these days.
But the executives and the suits had sent her for a reason. Did they think sending a pretty woman would sway him?
Well, that had happened in the past. And would probably happen again in the future.
It wouldn’t kill him to pretend to be interested.
So after he’d dressed, he called down to his housekeeper and ordered strong coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon and wheat toast. Women always went for the wheat toast. He added biscuits for himself.
When he got downstairs Victoria wasn’t sitting. She was standing in front of one of his favorite pieces of art, a lone black stallion standing on a rocky, burnished mountainside, his nostrils flaring, his hoofs beating into the dust, his dark eyes reflecting everything while the big horse held everything back.
“I know this artist,” she said, turning at the sound of his boots hitting marble. “I covered one of his shows long ago. Impressive.”
Clint settled a foot away from her and took in the massive portrait. “I had to outbid some highbrows down in Austin to get it, but I knew I wanted to see this every day of my life.”
She gave him a skeptical stare. “Seriously?”
It rankled that she already had him pegged as a joke. “I can be serious, yes, ma’am.”
She turned her moss-green eyes back to the painting. “You surprise me, Mr. Griffin.”
“Clint,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her out onto the big covered patio. “I ordered breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, glancing around. “Nice view.”
Clint ushered her to the hefty rectangular oak table by the massive stone outdoor fireplace, then stopped to take in the rolling, grass-covered hills and scattered oaks, pines and mesquite trees spreading out around the big pond behind the house. This view always brought him a sense of peace. “It’ll do in a pinch.”
She sank down in an oak-bottomed, cushioned chair with wrought-iron trim. “Or anytime, I’d think.”
Clint knew all about the view. “I inherited the Sunset Star from my daddy. He died about six years ago.”
She gave him a quick sympathetic look then cleared her pretty little throat. “I know...I read up on you. Sorry for your loss.”
Her clichéd response dripped with sincerity, at least.
“Thank you.” He sat down across from her and eyed the pastureland out beyond the pool and backyard. “This ranch has been in my family for four generations. I’m the last Griffin standing.”
“Maybe you’ll live up to the symbol I saw on the main gate.”
“Oh, you mean a real griffin?” He leaned forward in his chair and laughed. “Strange creature. Kind of conflicted, don’t you think?”
Before she could answer, Tessa brought a rolling cart out the open doors from the kitchen. Clint stood to help her. “Tessa, this is Victoria Calhoun. She’s with that show you love to watch every Tuesday night on TRN. You know the one about cowboys and cars and cattle, or something like that.”
Tessa, sixty-five and still a spry little thing in a bun and a colorful tunic over jeans, giggled as she poured coffee and replied to him in rapid Spanish. “She’s not your usual breakfast companion, chico.”
Clint eyed Victoria for a reaction and saw her trying to hide a smile. “Comprender?”
“Understand and speak it.”
Okay, this one was different. “Coffee?” Clint shot a glance at Tessa and saw her grin.
“I’d love some,” Victoria said, thanking Tessa in fluent Spanish and complimenting the lovely meal.
Clint